


Potential

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (between Dean/Crowley), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel is understandably pissed, Charlie is alive, Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, Gen, Guilty Dean, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Remixed, Season/Series 10, The Power Of Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what Dean's done. This is what Dean's become. </p><p>After realizing how far he's slipped over the edge in nearly killing Cas, Dean comes home in search of putting an end to the Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potential

**Author's Note:**

> Am I so pretentious as to rewrite the finale? (Including 10.21?)
> 
> Yes. Yes, I am.

Dean trembles. _I have to get out here. I have to get out of here._

His stomach growls. He hasn't eaten a real meal in days, only sips of water and beer, along with whatever he sees first in the vending machine. His head feels heavy, his arms and legs ache, and he simply feels drained and weak. Part of Dean tells himself to do something, take care of himself, but a bigger part sneers _you don't deserve it._ The most energy Dean uses is when he gets up from his bed to use the bathroom. 

He keeps washing his hands in the motel room's sink, clawing at the non-existent blood underneath his fingernails. Red begins to trickle down the drain, but Dean can't stop. _I have to remove it. I have to remove it. Out of sight, out of mind._  
  
But he can't get it out of his mind. And he can never erase what he'd done. To Cas. The one he's fought beside for years, his fellow soldier in the trenches, his friend, his—  
  
_No._ Dean forces himself to turn the faucet off, fingers trembling around the knob. No more. No more thinking.  
  
When he looks up, Dean catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks older than he remembers: tired, with dark circles underneath his eyes. His skin is pale, as if he's been locked up in a tower for over ten years, and his eyes look haunted. Horrified. Lifeless.  
  
Cas' face suddenly appears in the mirror, bloody and cut and brutalized. Dean's knees grow weak, and he nearly collapses like a newborn colt, holding onto the thin edge of the sink with both palms. The ceramic presses into his flesh like a dull knife, and Dean clenches down on it, needing something to take his mind away from the pain. But he can't. He keeps replaying it all in his mind: tossing Cas across the room as if he were a rag doll; smashing Cas' head into a table not once, but four times; turning Cas over not to help him up, but to grip the tie Dean once fixed to deliver a killing blow.  
  
He hadn't, in the end. He hadn't done it.  
  
But that doesn't erase the fact that, in that moment, Dean was ready to end the life of his oldest friend, who didn't even fight back or raise a hand, never once used the angel blade so easily pried from his fingers, who gave up home and stability and Heaven to catch Dean, time and time again.  
  
This is what Dean's done.  
  
This is what Dean's become.  
  
He has to stop.  
  
Dean's legs shake, and he has to brace his hands again, letting the words replay in his head, like a chant. _He has to stop. He has to stop. He has to stop._  
  
Before it's too late.

* * *

Dean drives back to the bunker and steps out without any weapons. He strips himself of his red jacket, leaves it in the seat, and feels the fine hairs raise up all over his bare arms. It's chilly outside. Yellowing leaves crackle underneath his feet as Dean takes slow steps towards the door. 

He opens it with surprising calm. Dean can still smell the petrol, and that brings back another flash of memories: striding into the front room, seeing all of his belongings scattered across the floor, raising his gun, and pulling the trigger twice. He remembers not being crippled with an ounce of remorse, then—then—coming back for Cas when he pleaded Dean’s name, nearly slipping in the acrid fluid on the floor when Dean charged at Cas, getting his fingers coated in the sour-bitter-sharp smell when he brushed the floor to—to—  
  
"Dean."  
  
Cas, healed from Dean's brutality, stands at the entrance to the front room. His weapon is raised, and Dean can see the careful hesitance. Something inside Dean smirks, but he's soon is overcome by his horror that he's allowed himself to slip again. So Dean raises both hands in the air in surrender, then slowly sinks down to the floor. When he looks up at Cas, the angel's eyes narrow, not in hostility, but confusion. The blade is still clutched tightly in his hand.  
  
"Dean—"  
  
"Cas, I'm so sorry," Dean hears himself say. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"You tried to kill me." Cas' tone is even, almost steady, and Dean almost wishes he'd yell, shout, clutch Dean's collar, and hurt him—throw him across the room, punch him in the face, stab him with the blade. Long ago, Cas had roughly dashed Dean against alley's walls and laid harsh blows that broke the skin, leaving close enough to brush Dean's lips. Dean remembers lying on the ground, closing his eyes, waiting for the angel to finish him off, but only receiving a gentle press of two fingers on his forehead, sending him to sleep.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Cas." Dean lowers his eyes and palms to the floor. His wrists bend underneath the pressure. Air moves across his exposed neck.

"You killed an innocent boy in cold blood. And you...you know I would die for you. I know I would lay down my life for you, to see you safe, but you treat me like...like a formality. You and Sam had me at your beck and call, but you never seemed to see that I was _more than..._ " Cas pauses, and the silence is almost worse than what he could say next.

"Cas, I'm so sorry. I went too far. I need to stop. You have to stop me. Kill me."  
  
"No." Cas fingers now brush his shoulder and firmly clasp it. "Dean, I can never do that."  
  
"Because I'd turn black eyes on you again."  
  
"Yes, but—" Cas makes a sharp sound in the back of his throat. "Look at me."  
  
Dean looks. Cas' blue eyes are solemn, with a trace of frustration at the corners. But somehow, they seem softer than they should be, and Dean can't look away, even though he's seen this expression on Cas' face a million times. Cas looks at him like he's simultaneously tranquil and astounded, like a soft sigh after waking up.  
  
But Dean doesn't deserve that look, so he closes his eyes. "Please. I don't know how else to make it up to you."  
  
"What have you said before, Dean? That suffering is part of living, being human? You're not damaged goods, and the best way you can redeem yourself is to try to make it up to those you've wronged." Cas squeezes his shoulder, once, and Dean's suddenly aware that it's his left, the one that no longer has the handprint. "I've been trying to do that since I—I—broke Sam's wall and thought myself foolish enough to try to rule the world. But I..."  
  
Dean can't bear to hash this all out again and see Cas in more unnecessary pain, so he shakes his head and looks Cas in the eyes again. "You've tried. That's all that matters."  
  
Cas smiles at him, gently. "See?" Then his tone then grows stern, unyielding: "But you must try, also."  
  
They're interrupted by a loud rapping on the metal door. Dean jerks his head up. It must be Sam—but wait...Sam doesn't need to knock...  
  
"Guys?"  
  
"No..." Dean says, hope and dread bubbling in his chest. "Is that...?"  
  
"It's kind of cold here, guys, and I don't have a key! Anyone home? Should I call? Drop in at a better time?"  
  
Cas leaves Dean, still kneeling on the hardwood floor, and slowly moves towards the door. He raises his hand, pushes down the lever, and pulls.  
  
Charlie's standing in the doorway, with a clean shirt and sweater combination, with a knife on her belt. "What's up?"

* * *

Dean nearly stumbles over his feet three times on the way to showing Charlie a seat at the kitchen table. Cas or Sam must have cleaned up the front room, but neither Dean or Cas want to be in there right now. Charlie doesn't seem to notice, but Dean has to dig his fingernails into his palms when the memories start up again, and Cas doesn't look at him at all until they get to the other room.  
  
Charlie sits and watches them bumble around to make hot chocolate and a quick sandwich. What does this mean? Dean wonders, then realizes that he made a horrible mistake, that he set off the Mark, killing an innocent kid and nearly murdering Cas—but he'd do it again, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he do the same thing over again? Dean has to also pull up a chair and sit, knees shaking.  
  
"We—I thought you were dead," Dean manages to gasp out. Castiel slides down beside him, waiting for the kettle to go off, and stares at Charlie, astonishment clear in his eyes. His hands are neatly folded on the surface of the table, and Dean keeps his eyes on them to try to focus. They're steady, unmoving, strong...  
  
"I escaped though the window." Charlie explains, taking a bite of the hastily-slapped-together PB&J. "I'm small enough to do it, and by some miracle, I managed to do it quietly and hide until he went away."  
  
Dean stutters, "But...but...Sam and I saw blood—"  
  
Charlie sighs. "You found blood in an empty motel room. You've seen enough movies to know if there is no body, no spirit, it's probably likely that they're not dead."  
  
Dean covers his face in his hands. Why hadn't he thought? Why had he lashed out at his brother, let the Mark take over, nearly—no. No. The kettle whistles, and Cas rises. Dean watches him, drinking in every step, every motion, every change in Cas' features. _He's alive_ , Dean reminds himself, mind trying to focus. _He's alive._  
  
"I managed to hide out for a while in another motel, hopping in and out of them for days. I wanted to make sure they couldn't find me, couldn't—" Charlie shivers, crossing her arms, and gratefully nods at the cup placed in front of her.  "Thanks, Cas. God. God, I almost—I almost died—God. I mean—I was in a war at Oz, and I evaded those creepy dudes for so long—but when the door was rattling, I—" Her lips tremble. “I just was so—”  
  
Dean pulls Charlie close, enveloping her in his arms. "Shhh. Shhh. I'm sorry, Charlie. I'm so sorry. But you're okay. You're okay." He closes his eyes. "You're okay."

Charlie hugs back, sniffling a little. They rock back and forth a little, and Dean holds his little sister for as long as he can.

When they pull away from each other, Charlie winces a little. “Damn, Dean, that was a tight hug. Did you miss me that much?”

Dean looks down at the table. Cas, beside him, says nothing.  
  
"Well." Charlie grimaces, wiping her nose. "What have you gotten yourselves into now?"

* * *

They find Sam in the dungeon, arguing with Rowena, and the younger Winchester’s widen when he sees the familiar bob of red hair.

“Charlie!” Sam gasps, and rushes forward, lifting her off the ground. “We thought—“

“Yeah, I heard,” Charlie says, patting him on the back. “It’s good to see you.”

“I can’t say the same for _you_ ,” Rowena drawls, and Charlie drops the hug to glare at her. “Granted, with you here, the Winchesters might be in a slightly better mood, but you, my dear—what did I tell you about loyalty?”

Charlie straightens, and looks from Sam to Dean. “My answer is the same as last time, Rowena, and you’re not going to get under my skin again. I have better things to think about.” The red-haired witch sneers, just as Charlie turns to Sam. “As flattering as it may seem, I’m not pleased that you two went on murderous rampages because of me.”

Sam’s face turns slightly red. “We—“

“I thought you guys promised to stick together. And not to lie to each other. But this appears to be a common theme, hmm? Well, I’m putting my foot down. No more of that.”

“But the plan—it could have helped—still help—Dean get free of the Mark—“

“No offense,” Charlie interrupts, a hint of irritation rising in her voice, “But your plan did almost get me killed.”

"She's right," Rowena calls from the table. 

Sam lowers his head, abashed. Cas also looks shamefaced.

"We get it. You can't live without each other." Charlie strides forward and pokes her finger into Sam's chest. "Your brotherly love is powerful. Powerful enough, according to the published and unpublished works of Carver Edlund, _to fuck over the entire world_."  
  
Both Sam and Dean guiltily look away.  
  
"Love is awesome. But not at the expense of the world. Or your friends. Or your family." Charlie breathes. "What did Bobby used to say? Family doesn't end in blood? You two are not what all you've got anymore. You have me. And Cas. We love you. And we're here for you."

* * *

They manage to get the Codex and Book of the Damned away from Rowena, who curses them out with Scottish words no one—except Cas—understands. Charlie sets the book on the table, covered by a linen cloth, and slipping on a pair of rubber gloves from beneath the sink, begins flipping through it. "Maybe if we can't remove the Mark, we can just suppress it. Now that I think about it, Dean's been mostly calm. Except—"  
  
"It was triggered by something huge." Dean interrupts. "More reason to tamp it down as much as we can."  
  
"Until a solution is made," Sam adds.  
  
Dean winces. "Yeah. But in the meantime, there might be a spell somewhere to help out."  
  
They all turn to Charlie, who frowns and leafs through the pages nosily. "There is most likely a binding spell, but it has to be very powerful to contain your...fury."  
  
Cas' face lightens. "My grace."  
  
"Oh, Cas," Dean says, panic creeping up his throat. "No. Don't give it up for me."  
  
"There's no giving it up," Charlie interrupts. "Maybe there's like a...partial energy transfer. Both of you hold equal portions—"  
  
"You don't need to do that."  
  
Dean turns to Cas, confused. "What?"  
  
Cas shifts to the side, eyes suddenly on the ground. "You have my Grace. I never wanted to tell you, but you do have a portion of it, dormant, from where I pulled you out of Hell."  
  
"And it's still there?"  
  
"Angel grace is very hard to purge. Claire had still some in her body, and that was from around the same time."  
  
"But you, ah, possessed her." Sam delicately interrupts. "But you've never possessed Dean, right?"  
  
"No," Cas says, shaking his head. "But you remember Balthalzar, what he did to that boy with the Moses Staff? Balthazar made a claim on a living soul, and that sort of claim leaves a mark. When I—" Cas looks at Dean, then glances away, again. "When I raised you from Perdition, I claimed you to purge the darkness that was slowly claiming your soul. For the angels, for the world, for the key to everything, but the Grace...it's mine."  
  
Dean allows himself to breathe. "That means..."  
  
"I can be your anchor," Cas says, then turns to Charlie. "I know a little of a spell. It acts as a balm and a muzzle, of sorts. We just need to find it."

* * *

After Charlie takes a long, hot shower, and after Sam returns with two extra-large pizzas, everyone sits down to eat and to open up the discussion again. Not before Dean takes his first bite, Sam’s already asking, “So, what _are_ we going to do about the Mark? Are we still going to try to remove it?”

Charlie sighs, drumming her fingers on the table. “According to Rowena, for any curse, there’s a counter-curse. But we don’t know how much the cure is going to cost any of us.”

“Anything that big requires a sacrifice,” Cas adds, pizza untouched.

“We can still have Rowena translate the spell,” Sam suggests, just holding the pizza in both hands, not eating it. “Give us some idea of what we’re up against.”

Dean frowns, already reaching for a second slice. “If we do, are we going ahead with it anyway?”

The younger Winchester takes a big bite, chewing slowly, and hesitating. “I—”  
  
"If it comes down to it, I can try to live with the Mark," Dean suddenly says.  
  
"You can't," Sam immediately disagrees, with a wave of his hand. He accidentally jars a glass of water, and it spills all over the table. Cursing, Sam tries to mop up the mess with one, thin napkin from the pizza place, as Dean rescues their dinner and carries it to the kitchen counter.

“Who says he can’t?” Charlie jumps in, standing to place her napkin on the spreading puddle. “Maybe we don’t need a cure right now. Maybe we just need…I don’t know, like, a magical shock collar.”  
  
"Cain lived with it for centuries,” Cas muses, getting up and fetching a dish towel hanging off the counter. Dean has the same idea, and as they both reach for it, their hands brush against each other. Jerking his hand away, Dean grabs another one from underneath the sink, as Cas helps clean up.  
  
"But he reverted—"  
  
"Because he didn't have Colette."

Everyone stares at him, but it’s Charlie who asks, “Who's Colette?"  
  
Dean flushes dark red around his ears, still holding onto his towel. He's not quite sure where that came from, but... "She's...she was Cain's wife. And when she asked him to stop, he did."  
  
Sam sighs, gathering up the sodden napkins and tossing them into the sink with wet _splats_. "So, what are you saying? Dean, you haven't been with anyone seriously besides Lisa, and I don't think—"  
  
"No, not Lisa." Dean feels like he might choke—maybe he's wrong, maybe he's pushing this, stretching this to the point of breaking to fit—but continues, "Not Lisa. Someone else."

He doesn't dare look at Cas beside him. 

* * *

As days pass, as Charlie works, Dean brings her blankets, food, and drinks. He keeps his hands busy, and forces himself to only think about simple things. _I'm going to get Charlie tea. I'm going to walk over to the kitchen. Fill the kettle with water. Turn on the stove. Set the kettle down on it. Wait._  
  
Waiting is the worst part for Dean.  
  
Waiting means letting everything parade in his mind. He can't go into the front room without smelling petrol and blood, hearing thuds and pained grunts, seeing Cas knocked against the table and sprawled out on the floor. He wants to stop, but he forces himself to remember, so it doesn't become a temptation. _This is what you did,_ Dean repeats. _This is you when you lose control. This is not happening again._  
  
But it can. Despite his bravery the other day, Dean can't stop wondering if it could happen, if it did happen, if he's followed through and pierced Cas in the heart with no remorse. It appears in his nightmares, him doing just that, sauntering away casually, leaving Cas dead on the floor. Sometimes his eyes are wide open, still pleading. Sometimes his eyes are shut, mimicking sleep. But always, always, there are wings burned onto the wood. Beautiful, arcing things that Dean's imagined since the barn. They scar the honey-brown boards, smoldering with tiny bits of orange, with ash smeared on Cas' coat and white dress shirt and striped blue tie. They're a permanent reminder that he killed something holy, something that he should have never touched—  
  
Dean rolls over, body twisting in the sweat-soaked covers, shuddering. He feels warm blood drip between his fingers and burn of silvery-blue light across his eyelids. He smells salt and acid and smoke. He hears Cas helplessly plead, over and over: _Dean, please, please, Dean, Dean..._  
  
"No," Dean cries out softly. "No, Cas, no..."  
  
A steadying hand suddenly grabs his shoulder and shakes. "Dean."  
  
"No," he continues to moan. "No..."  
  
"Dean. Dean, wake up."  
  
"I killed Cas, I killed Cas—"  
  
"No, you didn't. Dean, open your eyes and look at me. I'm here."  
  
Dean struggles, as the voice keeps talking, the warm cadence guiding him away from the visions of ash and blood.  
  
When he wakes up, Dean notices that his shirt is soaked through, and that he's rolled over to the other side of the bed, the always empty space. Cas sits on the other side, hand still on his shoulder.  
  
"Cas!" Dean throws his arms around Cas, not trusting himself to squeeze, simply burying his face into the angel's shoulder. "Cas. You're here."  
  
"Always."

Dean shivers, pulling away. “I’m so sorry, Cas. I’m—”  
  
"That wasn't you."  
  
"It _was,_ ” Dean insists. “I chose to go off the rails like that, I chose to hurt you, and it’s my fault, Cas. Everything that went down in the last several months…that was me.”

He remembers his taunts to Sam, in the dungeon, in the middle of a devil’s trap: _The new real me sees things for what they really are._

“And Crowley—” Dean can hardly speak. He remembers hands roving on his bare flesh, hot hisses against his neck, and silky promises as shot after alcoholic shot pass his lips. His skin feels _dirty-wrong_ , and this time, he can’t even justify that it was a little pleasure, a little comfort, over consistent pain. He _wanted_ it. He _enjoyed_ it. He _let_ —

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is gentler, now, and Dean wonders if he’s accidentally said all of that out loud. “Crowley tricked you. He had all the cards, and he pretended to let you see his hand. What happened wasn’t your fault—“

“What is this? _I was a former demon, and what I did in my untreated state is not my fault_? Give me a break, Cas,” Dean snaps. “I willingly asked for the Mark of Cain, I—“

“If I remember correctly,” Cas interrupts. “Crowley led you to him. Did he offer you any equally viable solutions?”

“No. But I should have—“

“He took advantage of you when you were at your worst, your most vulnerable, and manipulated you.”

“But it was all me, Cas.” He can still hear _the new real me_ ringing in his ears. “If the cure didn’t work—“

“We would have found another way.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Cas sighs. He still hasn’t let go of Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, do you trust me?”

“I trust you," Dean tries to explain. "I just don't trust myself.”

The angel breathes in harshly, before saying, “When I was God, did you hesitate?”

“Yes.”

“But if I kept on, threatened to destroy the world, your family—would you have done it? To make the world a safer place?”

“Yes.”

“Sam couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have done it. But we would have found another way to stop you and save the world, because we love you.” There’s a long pause, before Cas continues, “ _I_ love you.”

Something tight closes around Dean’s throat, and he embraces Cas, properly this time.

All Dean can say is, “I meant it, after the cure. I’m glad you’re here.”

* * *

The day arrives. Charlie and Sam send Rowena away, with a tip of Crowley’s whereabouts, and when she protests, demanding the book and the Codex, Charlie has the honor of triggering a handy Men of Letters banishment spell that she dug up. Everything’s painstakingly prepared down in the dungeon, right down to the sigils Charlie drew on the floor. She now stands at the table, book open in her hands, with Sam standing beside her. Dean stands in the center of the room, facing Cas.

"You have to join hands," Charlie says.  
  
Dean turns and hesitantly lays his palms across Cas'. Cas closes his fingers around his and squeeze, gently. If Dean closes his eyes, he can concentrate easily on the cooling sensation in his arm, like ice over a sting, even though Charlie hasn't started the spell yet.   
  
"Ready for this?" Charlie asks nervously, clearing her throat.   
  
Dean nods, and looks at Cas. "Ready."  
  
Cas also nods. "Ready."

Charlie begins to chant, and Dean closes his eyes.

As long as he has the ones he loves by his side, Dean's ready.

**Author's Note:**

> This has to be one of the cheesiest things I've ever written.
> 
> But honestly, raise your hands. Who cared about Rudy? No one. 
> 
> But who pushed Dean over the edge? Rudy. 
> 
> Why not Dean's best friend, whom he beat to a bloody pulp in the last episode?


End file.
